The Hon. Samuel Hooper, of Massachusetts, was there, the finest wintry picture on the floor. After the same manner of the Secretary of State, he looks as if the earth loved him and had brought him the choicest offerings in her power. The sunshine of life has mellowed his character. Altogether he is a New England elm, around which the ivy of youth and affection loves to twine. Few men have so many strong friends as Mr. Hooper, and none can be found in public life less harassed by enemies.
For hours this distinguished sea of humanity whirled and surged through the mansion. Waiters managed, by some secret known only to themselves, to wedge their way through the dense throng and refresh the guests with cakes and ices. A room was provided where coffee and chocolate were served, but no costly wine or any other beverage that intoxicates was seen at the reception of the Secretary of War.
A glowering night prepared itself for the reception of the Postmaster-General. It rained, but as this part of the program concerned nobody but the hackmen and the horses, and as no Professor Bergh was present to look after the trials of his four-footed friends, the reception came off with additional glory reflected from the dark surroundings. In the midst of the pelting rain the carriages drew up before the handsome residence of the Postmaster-General, in the most fashionable quarter of the West End. Matting or drugget was laid outwardly from the mansion. A policeman opened the door of your carriage and held an extensive umbrella over your head while you found your way into the entrance. That short walk was the most impressive part of the evening’s entertainment. A cloud darker than the heavens above lined either side of the open space. It was reflected from the dense crowd of colored people who had collected to inspect the guests, who for a moment were visible as they passed from the carriage to the mansion. This crowd of boys, girls and men seemed as indifferent to the pelting rain as the dumb creatures which nature clothes in her own curious fashion. Once within the vestibule, we had light and music, celebrated men and brave women. In the usual place at the entrance of the first parlor might have been seen the Postmaster-General, and not far removed his accomplished wife. The Postmaster-General has a commanding person, a broad, towering brow, and underneath it a pair of opal eyes which burn and glow with the usual brilliancy of that exquisite gem. The lower part of his face denotes aggressive power, as well as that unmistakable pertinacity so necessary in a public man. He has set his face against the franking privilege, and the chances are that the Postmaster-General will win. No man in the United States has been so tortured with applications for office; and if he had the photographs of all the women who have applied to him for postoffices, and they were all laid in a row, single file, they would reach from Maine almost to California. Considering Postmaster-General Cresswell’s troubles, he is the most remarkably well preserved man in Washington.
Mrs. Creswell is handsome, as well as one of the most graceful women at the capital. Since the absence of Mrs. Senator Sprague from fashionable society, if she must have a successor, Mrs. Creswell seems the most available candidate for the vacant place. As an example of her exquisite taste she wore black velvet the evening of her reception, and no toilet is so “perfect at home.”
There seemed to be no end to the rooms in this modern mansion. In one place a soothing weed was prepared for the lords of creation, where they could steep themselves in smoke if they felt it to be desirable. In another chocolate and coffee were dispensed in dainty little cups that must have been imported from Constantinople. In the coffee-room might have been seen the genteel Montgomery Blair. He had a certain calm look of resignation on his face, sphinx-like in the extreme, as if he had the strength to bide the time of half a dozen administrations, if it was necessary, before the right one would “turn up” for the Blair family. Ex-Secretary McCulloch was also in the chocolate-room, surrounded by a bevy of pretty girls; but his associates were no better than he deserved, for a better, kinder-hearted man is hard to find. Another room was devoted to sandwiches, cakes, and ices. In a corner of this room was seen an immense punch-bowl, in which miniature icebergs were grating their sides. This punch-bowl contained lemonade colored with claret. An old lady whose veracity can be trusted, said there was just enough claret introduced in it to counteract dreadful effects of the ice and the acid in the beverage; that one could drink a dozen glasses without the least painful effect. At any rate, great quantities of this purple fluid disappeared, and no serious mischief followed.
Conspicuous among the hundreds of elegant women present was “Shirley Dare,” the Washington correspondent of the New York World. She was robed in blue satin, which was extremely becoming to her refined face, milky complexion, and amber-tinted hair. Her dress throughout was comme il faut as one of her own fashion letters, and among all the literary women who shine at the capital she is the one whom the writer feels most like grasping by the hand. She is the true woman journalist, who accepts the situation, and is willing to fight the battle of life on the woman’s platform. She believes that in our so-called weakness lies our strength, and that if women are only a mind to wake up and go to work, the men will never put down the brakes. The New York World has sent her here upon as delicate and difficult a mission as the females of olden times undertook when they were sent out by their sovereigns to distant courts to take charge of certain branches of diplomacy. The World ought to have provided the wardrobe, the carriage, jewels, and other important et ceteras to match, and afterwards give her a duchy when she returns to New York covered with scars and glory. A masculine reporter can slip unnoticed through the mazes of society; not so with a woman. She must be able to bear inspection. She must be prepared for any fate. What does a man know about society after he has bathed in it? He is unable to write a respectable society article. The great New York dailies have tried man after man at the capital, and have finally concluded there are some things which men cannot do. The newspapers now, in some directions, acknowledge the supremacy of woman.
Gen. Fitz Henry Warren, late minister to Guatemala, was present, accompanied by his accomplished wife. Mrs. Warren is a kind of periodical star in Washington society. A few years ago, when her husband was Assistant Postmaster-General, she was one of the noticeable women of the capital. She reappears again, bringing the graceful manners of the old regime, to which is added that rare cultivation acquired only by residence abroad, and the best gifts garnered in the passing years. Very few American women have remarkable inclinations for intellectual pursuits, but Mrs. Warren is found among the number.
Wending his way daintily, avoiding the long silken trains as if they concealed serpents and scorpions, was seen handsome Senator Carpenter, of Wisconsin. Oh! that this letter had not reached such a prodigious length, so that an inventory of his attractions might be made public! Let it be summed up that he is everything he should be and very little that he should not be. Few if any of the men at the reception had a finer presence. Colonel John W. Forney was there also. It was impossible to find out whether he was made for the reception, or the reception was made for him. At any rate, the fit was excellent; but the same reason that prevents a description of Senator Carpenter prohibits dwelling upon this specimen of his kind, and these two last difficult subjects must be laid, for the time, on the table.
Olivia.